


Not a Confession

by shinodabear



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Minor Character Death, Murder, Non-Graphic Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-05
Updated: 2011-01-05
Packaged: 2017-10-14 10:58:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/148512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shinodabear/pseuds/shinodabear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From the personal blog of Dr. John H. Watson:</p><p>"Whoever is reading this  –  Donovan, Lestrade, Harry, Mrs Hudson – Hello. This is not a confession. This simply is. ..."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not a Confession

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings are in place to err on the side of caution. Do any of them truly apply? That depends on how you're going to read this....

In the early days of our burgeoning friendship (Sherlock will hate me for using this word, of course, so I use it to spite him.) I was witness to my first experience with the police suspecting Sherlock of illegal activity. It was a drugs bust, DI Lestrade had said. I hadn’t believed it at first, of course. Sherlock? Drugs? Surely not. But the look in his eyes had said everything. Momentarily, I’d lost respect for that great man. I quickly gained it back, however. How could I not have? You learn to forgive Sherlock for his faults. He has many; don’t be fooled. He is as far from perfection as any ordinary human. The trouble with Sherlock is that he is so brilliant and so wonderful that you forget he is a “high-functioning sociopath” or “psychopath” or “freak” – whatever you want to call him. Generally, I just call him Sherlock and leave it at that. Every man has his vice – and every man has his virtue.

Perhaps I am Sherlock’s virtue. Who knows these days? I question that myself. Whoever is reading this – Donovan, Lestrade, Harry, Mrs Hudson – Hello. This is not a confession. This simply is. (I’m still writing, Ella. You were right, after all. It does help.)

Since the day Sherlock (never) admitted to using narcotics, I’d witnessed him do countless illegal things. None of them have truly mattered, in the grand scheme of the world, so none of them need factor in here. The point is that I’ve accepted them all, each and every act that I’d questioned him on at the time of its doing. Then I left him alone for two and a half weeks. I was gone: no mobile, no internet, not even a forwarding address. I left and Sherlock . . . well, I’m still not sure what Sherlock did.

When I arrived back at 221B Baker Street, the first thing I noticed was that the skull was back. At least, I’d thought it was the same skull as before. He may have just acquired a new one to use in my absence. The second thing I noticed was the knives in the wall. At least it wasn’t bullets again. (“The fun, John, wasn’t in the moment. It was in the reflection of the moment, of truly knowing what I was capable of doing and that I was finally doing it,” Sherlock told me after.) The third thing I noticed was Sherlock. He was curled up on the sofa wearing his usual marks of boredom, with his arms crossed and his face blank. “Hello, John,” he said. I said hello back. “Been keeping busy?” I asked. He shrugged and replied, “I tried.” “We both know you aren’t very good at trying.” I was attempting to be funny. I’d known how angry he was with me that I wouldn’t allow him to come on holiday with us. I’d convinced him Lestrade needed his expertise, that a case would come up and he’d need to be in London to solve it. He can be such a child at times.

He was so quiet then. Out of discomfort, I moved on to the kitchen, discovering some new limbs and organs in jars strewn over the various surfaces in the room. I checked the fridge. No food, of course, but no bodies or bits of bodies, either. There was no food anywhere in the cupboards. “Have you been eating?” I shouted at him from the kitchen. He replied that Mrs Hudson had been sending him food. Good old Mrs. Hudson.

He still wasn’t talking. It was not unusual for him not to engage in conversation, of course. I’d long since grown used to it. Out of habit, I started tidying up, picking up articles of clothing and sheets of paper from the floor. I located a half-eaten candy bar and a tube of lipstick. I’d asked him about that, but he only looked at me. I continued with my fussing until I uncovered a large stain on the hardwoods. “Sherlock?” I called, still bent over. (There are some images you will always carry with you. You never forget what you’ve seen.)

He knew what I was going to ask, of course. So he answered something to the effect of: “Yes, it is. And no, it isn’t mine.”

I asked if it was another one of his experiments. He didn’t answer. I heard him rise from the sofa and he came around to where I was. I remember our exact conversation:

“No. You left. I grew bored. So bored, in fact, that I asked Molly out to dinner one night. We had a nice time. I invited her back to the flat and I considered slitting her throat, but that would’ve been too altruistic. I entertained the idea of stabbing her twenty-seven times but that just seemed like such an effort. Then I axed the idea of knives altogether and figured I’d do it with my bare hands. She really didn’t see it coming. “

“You can’t be serious, Sherlock.”

“No. I’m not. I completely made that up.”

“Are you lying to me?”

“Why? Are you scared?”

“No.”

“Are you afraid?”

“That’s the same thing.”

“No. No, it really isn’t.” He smiled and turned back for the sofa like we had just been discussing football or politics (neither of which Sherlock has ever given a damn about.)

I reasoned that, if he did murder Molly, he would have cleaned up the evidence. He countered with “What would be the point?” Surely he wouldn’t have wanted to have gone to jail, I said. My stupid brother wouldn’t allow for that to happen, Sherlock said. “You’re just having me on,” I said. And Sherlock laughed. “Perhaps.”

[ _John pauses over his laptop, reconstructs the events in his mind and finds that they sit bitterly inside of him. He could go on. He could go on and on._

 _Sarah left ages ago. She went to stay with friends for a little while, she’d said. She owed Sherlock, after all. They all owed Sherlock._

 _John peers over at Sherlock’s sleeping form, curled up on John’s sofa, bare feet peeking out from the wool afghan. John’s fingers find the home keys once more. He resumes._ ]

That’s all that was said about the matter. I was afraid to delve any deeper. I was even afraid to set foot in St. Bart’s or check the obituaries. I never asked Sherlock anything more, and he never elaborated further. There were no inquiries about the disappearance of Dr. Molly Hooper, so I figured Sherlock was trying out a new brand of humour. And to any of you who mention that she has not updated her blog in quite some time, that is circumstantial evidence. There are plenty of reasons for someone to stop writing a blog. For one, when they realize that no one ever really reads blogs and that they are a self-indulgent waste of time. For another, she could be playing along with Sherlock’s little game. It’s no secret the things she will do for that man.

[ _Stop. Spell check. Post. It’s done. John breathes. It’s done._

 _“Sherlock,” he sighs mostly to himself, “What have we done?”_ ]


End file.
